What I Cannot Have
by Diritus
Summary: Kabuto's mind wanders to darker places while Orochimaru is under the knife. He reflects on the tortures of his obsessions and fights the urge to act on them. Rated M for sexual themes and mild gore. One shot.


He could be scrubbed and ready for surgery in a matter of minutes, in that he took pride. This skill came into play once again as he was greeted by the humming of a manual respirator. It played steadily in the background while the patient's vital readings, what should have been a steady, almost musical rhythm, sputtered along as a cacophonic series of beeps singing over the hum. The tones seemed to nag at Kabuto, reminding him of the severity of the situation like a worried spouse in the waiting room.

The patient was fully nude, pulled straight from the field and stripped to reveal any injuries. There had been no time to completely clean him, the main focus being getting him stable and on a breathing machine. This wasn't something chakra alone could fix. Chakra could only increase the body's natural healing abilities. Without being set properly to heal on it's own, a wound could become much worse, resulting in terrible deformities or in the most extreme cases, organs being left exposed or growing into the dermis or other organ tissue. That was why, when push came to shove, they still needed good old fashioned steel.

The wound the patient had sustained was not too uncommon, though the level at which it was done made it more devastating. Clearly, the injury had been caused by a blade, what was most likely a longsword. The cut was clean and spanned laterally across his torso, bisecting the solar plexus and causing serious cartilage damage to the inferior ribs. However, the biggest problem at the moment was the ruptured diaphragm causing a severe case of pneumothorax. Having his pleural cavity punctured prevented him from being able to breath, and that was what Kabuto was currently tasked with fixing.

He began by cleaning the surrounding area of the wound, his movements precise and thorough. He worked as though only another piece of medical equipment, each motion made with purpose, maximum efficiency. Once as sterile as time would allow, he worked on stopping the bleeding, which didn't require much work on his part. This particular patient's body was remarkably good at diverting blood away from open wounds, much better than most subjects he had worked with. Next came repairing the pleural membrane, then the diaphragm.

As the surgery proceeded, he began to move without thinking. His skill was such that he did it all on autopilot, so far removed emotionally from the situation that stress wasn't even a fleeting thought. His heart rate was level, his body perspiring normally. To him, this was more akin to doing the morning crossword. And like anyone else busying their mind with such things, his own began to wander.

An hour in to the operation, a slight motion from the patient's head, a furrowing of the brow, caused him to look at his face. Pausing a moment to make certain the anesthesia was still in full effect, he returned to the task at hand. However, as he noted the patient's face, for the first time he began to think of him as something more than a body on a gurney.

It was a face he knew well, a face that stood for a man paramount in his life. The patient he was working to save was his boss, his leader, and in many ways, his savior. The face was that of Orochimaru. The body, of course, also belonged to him, and Kabuto took note of it all: the pallor of his flesh, the sleek way it covered his lean muscle, leaving him well defined despite how slender he was, even the rough patches around his joints that required lotion to keep from drying out, especially in the winter.

Ah, this was a tangent he could lose himself in. His musings over Orochimaru were a daily indulgence, a guilty pleasure that was only just hidden away, something everyone was aware of, but no one brought to light.

Kabuto knew this man's body better than his own, each curve and fold, every ligament, every vein, every flaw, though that particular list was short. Despite it's current state, the body was magnificent to take in. The overall shape was alluring, his waist trim and hips curved. Despite how nicely defined they were, his hips weren't feminine. It was less a case of them being wide, and more a case of the waist being so narrow. His muscles clung so tightly to his bones that his joints always had a delicate thinness about them, yet a hand laid on his arm would be greeted with firm muscle, the potential for great force practically quivering in the tissue.

As stunning as the body was while on a gurney, animated and fueled by a beautiful mind, it was taken to deified level of excellence. The way he carried himself was seduction incarnate. Nothing he did was completely clean of desire. His gaze was a tease, letting you know that he was planning something but not giving away just what. Those golden eyes glimmered almost eternally with the spark of curious amusement he had grown so accustomed to. Those eyes saw everything, and those hands of his always seemed to be eager to explore whatever surface caught his attention. They smoothed over every surface he happened to be near, the tendons rising and falling on the backs of his hands, smooth as marble, casting a subtle shadow and creating tantalizing contrast. Those hands didn't stop only with the inanimate. Orochimaru was not a man who was concerned with the comfort of those in his range. If it suited him, hands would run down the arms of whoever he was speaking to, or down their face. If he was in a particular mood, his tongue might run, firm and wet along their jaw or cheek, eager to feel soft facial tissue.

When something, some particular sensation caught his interest, it sometimes simply wasn't enough for his hands to feel it. No, if Orochimaru liked something, he would let it touch more sensitive parts of him: his stomach, his face, his tongue, all to get the full range of experiences. Once, he recalled, the pair had been bathing together in the showers at Otogakure. Orochimaru was getting used to the new shower heads, letting the different stream of water wash over his hands...then his stomach and chest...then his face. Kabuto had watched from his own shower head, frozen at a half glance his direction when the man had finally opened his mouth to let the water run down his tongue, into his mouth. It gathered there for a moment before he turned to face Kabuto, a smile fighting against the slight bulge of the water in his mouth. Then, without warning, the smile burst like a damn, spitting the water over Kabuto's body. The water held a distinct temperature from what came from the shower head, and the act itself caused his face to flush, forcing him to leave the showers or develop something else to be embarrassed about. The release of fluid from him, even something as simple as water, onto himself...the concept, the act, the force of degradation that it represented had driven him absolutely mad.

It was far from the first and abysmally far from the last time Orochimaru would have used Kabuto's desires against him for his own amusement. Orochimaru was an eternal researcher, always picking at things, pushing buttons for the mere sake of seeing what they did. Oh, how he loathed and adored the trials that Orochimaru had put him through. He was unafraid of putting his hands on him to solicit the reaction he was seeking. It was the closest their bodies would ever become, and Kabuto learned to take himself to the very limit of what he could stand, to let the trials go on as long as he could before Orochimaru would push away from him, sauntering out of the room with a wicked smile on his face, knowing full and well what he was walking away from. Kabuto, taking full advantage of the situation, cherished the memories and utilized them in the late darkness of his room. To sate his body's urges and his mind's wild fetish, he would masturbate to the memory of those encounters, of the thought of him backing him against the wall, speaking to him in hushed tones and making Kabuto's meek body tremble. When things went really far, he would sometimes have the tactile memory of that soft, wet tongue finding its way along his jaw or neck, sending violent chills through him...Only to have the epitome of his desire flee, never giving him what would put him at ease. No, it just wouldn't be fun of his little toy didn't squeak anymore...

From the corner of his eye, he managed to spy something that egged on that small amount of bitterness he felt towards the object of his obsession. Under the influence of the anesthetic, the body had relaxed enough to cause an erection. It was both a beautiful and terrible thing. That organ, that one piece of flesh was the epicenter of his desires, the idol of the deity he bowed to. There was something to be worshiped in the genitalia of such a sexual creature, the crown piece of a force unholy, the power behind what drove him mad. And there it was.

It was a slap in the face, mocking him. There it was, inches from where he stood, full and ready to be claimed, and yet still so far from his reach. What would the point have been? He wasn't awake, wasn't aware of what was going on. Kabuto knew that, even taking full advantage of the situation at hand, it wouldn't be the same fulfilling desire that he wanted so terribly...but it also seemed sinful to just leave it. If only there was some way to squeeze some gratification from it, to live out even a portion if the endless fantasies he had! But how could he betray the trust they had formed? Maybe, if he just took him in his mouth while he was still under, maybe that would be enough to put his mind at rest for a time. He wouldn't ride him out like he really wanted to, but...just to taste him?

Then the procedure was complete. He healed over the dermis, returning the skin back to its originally flawless condition before fixing up the other, more minor wounds and giving the body a final cleaning before draping a light tarp over him, and wheeling him to a recovery room.


End file.
